


and I stepped aside

by Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile/pseuds/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile
Summary: "I don't know how much more of this I can take," Sam says quietly.Dean swears his heart stops, right there and then.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 14





	and I stepped aside

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Always Gold" by Radical Face. I've loved Radical Face for years and never felt so connected to that song before I got into the SPN fandom. It's kind of perfect for Sam and Dean. I definitely recommend giving it a listen while reading if that's what you're into or before/after if you're like me and can't really concentrate on words while music's playing.
> 
> My intention was not to demonize John. This fic is more about Dean's increasing weariness at playing the middleman between his brother and dad. And it's pretty clear in canon how highly Dean thinks of his dad at the start of the series. It's just that sometimes, you've spent so much time defending someone, and you eventually have to come to terms with their flaws.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," Sam says quietly. 

Dean swears his heart stops, right there and then. 

His hands still on the blade of the bowie he's polishing. Sam's eyes are glued to the door that Dad banged through on his way out to get plastered and stew on their unfinished fight. Not that Dad will ever admit that things are still tense and unresolved. He'll expect, as he always does, for his word to be the law. And _goddammit Sam, this discussion is over when I say it's over!_

But Dean knows that Sam won't just forget about it, shrug off what Dad said when he was angry, let it slide off his back _the way he's supposed to_. No, he'll take that anger, crush it tight and let it harden to stone. It'll go into the file he's building of all the many ways that Dad's wronged him, just waiting for the day he can lay it all out and walk away. From Dad, from their life. 

From Dean.

Not that Dean can necessarily blame him. He's not as blind as Dad, and _fuck Sam_ for thinking he's a headless soldier, constantly waiting for commands. He can see, plain and clear, that Sam's not cut out for this life. 

Oh, he's good at it, fits perfectly in their little unit with the wits and sense and skill of a born-and-bred hunter. Could even be great if he wanted it. But Sam doesn't want that. 

All he's ever wanted was that white picket fence dream: a beautiful wife, two-point-five kids, and a puppy. A home that he can come back to at the end of the day. And it's not like Dean doesn't want that. Sometimes, when he's gritting his teeth against the sharp sting of a needle and the _tug-tug-tug_ of coarse thread stitching him back together, he lets himself indulge in the idea of a home. A real home, not the same endless line of cheap motels and nameless faces. Sammy getting to finish out a year of school, maybe more. 

Dad being present. 

God knows Dean loves his father, but part of him died the night Mom did, and it was that part of him that they’d needed the most growing up. 

Sam's teachers always love him, _what a polite young man, and so smart too!_ Not that they've ever been able to stay long enough for that to matter. Dean figures most other fathers would be proud if they had a genius kid. Not every one, because some monsters are the human kind. Well, really, most humans are assholes except for kids and babies. But maybe if Dad ever acted like he cares when Sammy does something awesome, like break the teacher’s curve, that one who lives to fail students. Or maybe if he'd said something more than _don't let it distract you, Sam, what we're here for is more important than soccer_ when Sammy had come running through the door all excited. 

Maybe. 

All the maybes will drive Dean crazy if he lets himself think on it for any length of time.

This crusade they're on, it was never Sam's to begin with. He never knew Mom, just the idea of her, a martyr kept ever holy in the mind and words of John Winchester. He doesn't have Dad's vengeful drive. Doesn't have whatever screw is loose in Dean's head where he likes the hunt, craves that high borne from watching a pile of bones burn or nailing a monster and saving people. 

_Saving people_. 

Dean's got enough self-awareness to recognize that it's not always about saving people for him. 

Or for Dad. 

He tries to remember that's why they do all this. Not for him to get his kicks. 

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean says, tries to catch his eyes. "Let's get to work." 

He jerks his head toward their arsenal, spread out on Dean's bed, waiting to be disassembled and cleaned. A long beat, then Sam pads over and picks up the nearest shotgun. Somehow, even though he's moving with the same unnatural grace that he draws on while they're tracking in the woods, the same easy fluidity that he just seems to carry with him, he manages to convey a resigned, muted, _righteous_ fury. He handles the gun carefully, Dad would ride both their asses if he didn't, but it still feels like he's ripping it apart. 

"If you ever get to stay in one place long enough-" Sam starts. Pauses. "-when, I mean. When you settle down. You're gonna have to leave Dad." 

He sends Dean a look that halts his protesting words. 

"Dean. I mean it. I need to believe that you won't be in this until the day you die in action somewhere where no one knows you enough to care." 

Dean thinks it's pretty unlikely that he could ever voluntarily forget about what's crawling around in the darkness enough to _settle down_ , but he knows he's gotta humor Sammy if he ever wants some peace. 

"Okay, Sammy." 

"No," Sam says, eyes blazing. "Don't say that so I'll shut up." 

He slams the shotgun down and grabs another. It seems to take the anger straight out of him, and he slumps, looks as tired as Dean feels. 

"Dad's a hard man to live with.” 

Sam’s feeling his way through the words, trying to blunt their edges. 

"Dean, you know he'll never be satisfied, never be able to stop criticizing what you do." Inhaling sharply, Sam blinks hard and stares at the ratty motel carpet. 

"I know he thinks that if he can kill the thing that took Mom, it'll be over. He thinks that he'll just walk away, and we'll all be happy together again. But it'll never be over." 

He drops the gun and walks over to where Dean is gripping the handle of the bowie tight enough that he can feel an ache in his knuckles, pries the knife from his hands, traps them under his. 

"Dad's holy war won't end. And I _need_ you to survive it. I need you to at least want to survive it, not just do this forever." Dean can hardly bring himself to meet Sammy's eyes, knows that he's always been weak to his baby brother's wishes. 

"Okay," he whispers, and he's not sure if he means it or not. 

"Sam, I'm not gonna lie to you and try and pretend like I don't want to keep you here with us. I like us all being together, as a family. I don't want you to leave. But you haven't seemed happy for a long time. So I guess you'll just have to decide what you want. Or," he lets out a short, humorless laugh, "I think you already have. Either way, we'll always be brothers. So you don't have to worry about that." 

It's been the strongest driving force of Dean's life, looking after his pain-in-the-ass little brother, and that's never gonna change. 


End file.
